


It Is The East And Simon Is The Sun

by simonsnow



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell, ROWELL Rainbow - Works
Genre: M/M, References to Shakespeare, Romance, Shakespearean Sonnets, carry on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-25 07:05:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6185281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simonsnow/pseuds/simonsnow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snow is bloody horrible in school. He hardly ever does his work, he takes days off to fight quests and do the Mage’s bidding, he can hardly hold a wand without threatening the life of everyone within a mile radius. </p><p>	But he is a bloody talented actor. </p><p>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</p><p>When Baz gets called to do the school play, it only makes sense that it's Romeo and Juliet and it only makes sense that Simon Snow gets the lead. </p><p>It only makes sense that something would go wrong.<br/>And this would happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Is The East And Simon Is The Sun

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~TYRANNUS BASILTON GRIMM-PITCH'S POINT OF VIEW~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~          

   Snow is bloody horrible in school. He hardly ever does his work, he takes days off to fight quests and do the Mage’s bidding, he can hardly _hold a wand_ without threatening the life of everyone within a mile's radius.

            But he is a bloody talented actor.

            5 months ago, ask me, and I would’ve never believed a word of it. Now, if Miss. Possibelf ever asks me to run a school play I will never say yes again – the last thing I need is to watch Simon Romeo Snow rehearse soliloquies to the crowd, or sonnets to Juliet (Agatha Wellbelove, no less). It’s _torture and not mercy_. By the time either of them fall and die, I'm already joining in on the death party like Paris.

            Still, fuck me if I ever have to hear him rehearse the lines again after tonight's last show. Him pacing around the room, on the stage, mumbling the lines to himself in class. He rehearses _everywhere._ But after tonight’s last performance, we can just get on with our lives and say adieu to the late rehearsals, and nonstop under-breath chatter of couplets. At the same time, fuck me when that happens. I can't be with him. I can't be  _without_ him. Who needs poison when you have unrequited love? 

            “Is everyone here?” I boom at the gathered actors. They’re all decked in their t-shirts and jeans (if you think I’d let these imbeciles try to incorrectly replicate the 17th century, who do you think I am?). I scan the crowd. There’s Bunce as the Nurse (to much protest that it wasn't a strong female role); Dev and Niall as Tybalt and Capulet; Gareth as Benvolio, wait. “Where the fuck’s Romeo and Juliet?” I groan, putting my hand to my temples. Simon walks in, half a sandwich in his mouth five minutes before the performance starts  - nervous eater - alongside Agatha with an apple.  Heavens to Crowley – fine, you know what? Whatever.

            I keep going on. “It’s the final show everyone and we need to go out with sparks. We don’t have the luxuries of a drunk crowd like Shakespeare would’ve, but we’ve got all the lines in perfection.” I nearly have to refrain myself from saying _nearly_ in perfection. If you can't spit out a spell how can you spit out Shakespeare - you _can't_. “After this it’s all back to normal, but.. good job. I’ve been fairly impressed.” I manage to compliment them all and it feels foreign. _Not_ going to do that again. “Five minutes!” I announce, and then they all scattered. I would do this job again if it weren’t for Snow. I’d feel the energy in the room, soap it up. To see people go from ‘to not to be or to be’ to ‘look, love, what envious streaks do lace the severing clouds in yonder’s east’. Except having to look at him looking lovingly at his Juliet and knowing every time I do it’ll burn but still doing it - Crowley – it’s not worth it. I get enough of that just being in the same class as them.

            “Everyone ready!” I whisper, standing next to the curtain. Full house – Miss Possibelf is in the front row. I have a train of ‘followers’ and then I swagger onto the stage in a blazer. Part of _Prince_.

            " _Rebellious subjects, enemies to peace,_

_Profaners of this neighbor stained steel –_

_Will they not hear? – What ho, you men, you beasts!"_

            And so the lines continue. Me slamming down on the Montagues and Capulets for their petty fights. A direct comparison between the Mage’s era and the Old Families, if or if I can’t have the right to say so. Of course, that’s only if Prince had an unfair preference to the Old Capulets over the Montagues and the Old Capulets wanted to burn him on a stake. I do.  

            I walk off the stage when Romeo is about to come on, turning over my shoulder to see the entrance. Surely enough, there he is.

            “ _Your plantain leaf is excellent for that.”_ He sniggers sadly. On point. Lovesick Snow – if only he was.

_“For what, I pray thee?”_

            “ _For your broken shin_.” Snow’s dragging his arms, staggeringly slow. He’s doing this lopsided smile that’s like he’s trying too hard to seem happy, and he’s avoiding eye contact, and tilting his head forward, sending brown curls flushing over his simple, blue irises.

            I mouth everyone’s lines while they’re onstage, from Romeo to Benvolio to Servant. ‘ _..I pray come and crush a cup of wine. Rest you merry.’_ Servant.

_Benvolio - ‘At this same ancient feast of Capulet’s sups the fair Rosaline..’_

_Romeo - ‘When the devout religion of mine eye,_

_Maintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fires;_

_And these who, often drowned, could never die,_

_Transparent heretics, be burnt for liars._

_One fairer than my love! The all-seeing sun_

_Ne’er saw her match since first the world begun.’_

He ends the consonants of the words perfectly, with the right pauses for the right full stops. His pitch raises when it needs to, he’s taken all the advice I’ve given him in practice.

            I can’t make it through this.

           He's my Rosaline, but there's no Juliet, for fuck's sake, there's only Rosaline. I'm forever going to be like this. 

            Lovesick and lovesick and more lovesick, and then _finally_ the scene changes. Bunce, Wellbelove, and a 10 th year. Nurse, Juliet, and Lady Capulet.

            Bunce is sarcastic in the point of the Nurse, because I don’t think she can handle the character of Juliet. Juliet is naïve, young, and just a pretty 12 year old (in the traditional play). She's fairly irritating. 

            Wellbelove is good for the role of Juliet – beautiful and perfect and effeminate. She may not be 12 anymore, but she is surely youthful at least in appearance.

            Her consonants could do with some work, however. Except, they’re worse than they usually are. She looks tired and too pale, and it isn’t the ' ** _Will you still love me'_**  we cast on her face. What in magic’s name?

            When the scene’s over, she looks normal, before she makes it to the end of the stage, the star rushes into the backstage and runs into people after people after people, her fragile voice creating a broken trail of ‘sorry! Sorry, sorry!’s. I follow after her – this can’t be what I think it is. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. _No_.

            Penny follows her, rushing off in the direction of the bathroom, the _girl’s_ bathroom if that makes any difference to me entering it. It doesn’t.

            When I fling open the door, she’s already there with her head over the toilet seat, puking up chunks of God knows what but it’s appauling.

            “What’re you doing here?-“ Agatha tries to counteract, except she’s in the middle of being sick and fails. She sends all the messages she needs to in a glance. So does her literal nurse now, Bunce.

            “You can’t be serious, this doesn’t _happen_ in real life!” I immediately start to burn on the inside. Light me on fire. Honestly. Do it. You might as well have – you’ve set fire to my career! “You’re going to be alright, aren’t you? Bloody fuck in the name of _King Arthur!”_

To think Simon’s still onstage.

            “She can’t go back onto the _stage_ like this?” Bunce argues.

            “She has to!”

            “Find someone else!”

            “The school doesn’t have the budget for understudies, Bunce!” I shout back. “ _OR_ the talent, in fact!” Maybe we would if the students were actually intelligent and not made up of every magician on this island.

            Suddenly, Bunce’s face lights up, eyes widening like she’s found the will to live. Something I don’t currently have.

            “What – what is it Bunce?” I question.

            “Baz, you know every line.”

            It clicks.

            “ _No_.”

            “Well, don’t you?”

            “That _isn’t_ an option, Bunce.”

            “Then send someone up with the script.”

            “That’s not an option, either, Bunce!” What does she think this is? A slapstick comedy? A satire? 

            “Then you have to be Juliet!” She argues, starting to look on the edge of her rope. Wellbelove sends a glance, looking like she’s the ghost in Hamlet. Wrong _play_.

            “Just do it, Baz.” She says like she knows you can’t argue with Bunce.

            My nose twitches.

            “Where’s Juliet!” Rhys shouts, rolling up in his wheelchair as close to the situation as possible. “It’s the kiss scene.”

            “Fucking here.” I snarl, moving away from the mess of Snow’s sideshow characters.

            “What?”

            I start heading towards the side of the stage with averted eyes. I can't believe this. Of course. Of shitty, fucking fire course. 

            Snow is looking directly at the side of the stage, like he’s waiting for something to happen. Like he’s wondering where Juliet is. Like it’s taking all of his effort not to seem disgusted or suspicious, staring at me.

            I start walking onstage and you can see something visibly happen to his face when he realizes it. I’m Juliet. All of his skin starts to turn pink. My heart’s beating in my chest, hands clasped in front of me to stop it being visible that I’m ticking. Don't stop acting now, Snow. If you do there will have to be a massive plot twist when I kill you. Except I have to kiss him - the after-party scene. 

            At least I have the ‘in love’ part of Juliet done.

            We are not going to kiss. I will not kiss Snow.

            Actually, that’s incorrect.

            Snow will not kiss me.

            He starts his lines after a hardly long pause that feels as though it takes hours. Snow walks up towards me.

            “ _If I profane with my unworthiest hand,”_ His eyes are shining. Fucking. Good. Acting. That is why you cast him as Romeo, Baz. That is _why,_ you complete git. Did you want to die? 

The words twirl out of his mouth and land on me like flower petals would. _“This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this:_

_My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand,_

_To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.”_

He takes one of my palms – the right one – into both of his, with his short, sweaty fingers. He takes it with his fingers covered in galaxies of moles. His soft palm.

            Well, if this is going to be a war of who will say the lines the best rehearsed, I’m going to put up a fight, Snow. I'm not going to be your blushing, naïve Juliet, sorry. “Good _pilgrim_ ,” I say it more pompously. I'm not that good an actor, but I've been called dramatic once or twice. I just have to play myself to make a stellar Juliet. “ _You do wrong your hand too much,_ ” I turn away from him so I can send him eyes from the side. _“Which mannerly devotion shows in this;_

_For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch,_

_And palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.”_ Holding your palm to mine, Romeo, is like a kiss.

            Even in his _voice_. You can hear the longing. “ _Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?”_ His voice is made of clouds. 

            I wait a moment before confidently correcting him. “ _Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in_ prayer.” You’re supposed to _pray_ with your lips, Simon.

            I could use a few prayers right now.

            Ugh, what do these lines matter?

I will not kiss Simon Snow.

            I remember telling him that he should stare at Juliet - back then Agatha - even when she isn’t staring directly at him here. I was practically their fake relationship counselor. I can practically see him doing that to me.

“O, _then, dear saint,”_ He swallows nervously. I can hear it. You can _hear_ him staring and swallowing. It’s just as though he’s in a nightmare – this is a nightmare for him. “ _Let lips do what hands do._

 _They pray; grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.”_ I’m _praying_ for you to kiss me, Juliet. That’s the line. _Fuck_ – why Shakespeare? Of all things? Why did I choose Shakespeare?

I remember telling him in rehearsals to step towards her like he had been travelling all day, and she was something to lean into. Juliet was his moment's rest from torturous Rosaline. I'm jealous that he even had an option besides Rosaline; I don't have any option but Snow. 

Why did I cast  _him_ as Romeo? 

Because you never thought this would happen, Baz.

“ _Saints do not move,”_ I reply, sending my eyes away from his. Standing still back turned. “T _hough grant for prayers’ sake.”_

I remember telling him to put a hand on Juliet’s shoulder – Agatha’s before, and now _mine_. His palm hesitates, but then it’s pressure is heavy in the space next to my neck. I can feel it through my shirt. He’s always burning from across the dorm room.

            I turn my face slightly more to face him, let my body follow, and he _still_ keeps his same steady hand moving to touch the side of my face. My frozen, pale cheeks that probably aren't so pale right now. I can't blush, but I can damn sure turn a lighter shade of white. It comes next. You can see it in his expression. Why's his expression so soft? Delicate? Like I'm still Juliet or Agatha. “ _Then move not, while my prayer’s effect I take.”_

            I, Basilton Grimm-Pitch will never kiss him.

Which is why this is torture.

Which is why Simon kisses me.

            And why when we both pull our heads back the slightest, just far enough to speak, I’m still covered in static electricity. 

            Snow pauses a moment, chokes on the line. “Thus – _thus_ ,” He's never done that before. His eyebrows crease. “ _From my lips, by thine, my sin_ is.. purged.”

            Of course. They still have to kiss again.

            “ _Then have my lips the sin that they have took.”_ I flick up my eyebrows, trying to fall back into character. Failing. Always failing. 

            “ _Sin from thy lips?_ ” Simon laughs. Laughs with a smile and a sigh and his eyes and his entire being. I just want to kiss him. I just want to kiss him again. The static electricity needs some way of leaving me, and I need to kiss him. I need to ground the lightning that's built inside of me. “ _O trespass sweetly urged!”_ He let's his lips rise even further and I melt, and his eyes are confused, and angry, and he pauses. Like he’s so sure and then unsure all at once. “ _Give me my sin again.”_

            And we both kiss each other. No ‘who reached for who’ because it doesn’t matter.

            I’ve wanted this.

            I _want_ this.

            All the electricity inside of me passes through me at once in chills, like I've short circuited in the best way possible. 

            And I’m sure the play has to continue, positive that time’s spinning too fast.

            Positive that my heart is spinning too fast, and I can _feel_ Snow’s beating into me we’re so close, he’s moved in so close to me with his soft and his cotton t-shirt.

            I stay there. Kissing him.

            And I miss a line before Penelope is onstage with us.

            “ _Sir, your mother caves a word with you._ ”

            And I pull away.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~EPILOGUE (SIMON'S POV) ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It's getting dark, and the adrenaline rush from the crowd’s applause still hadn’t gone away. Neither had my hand from the lips that Baz kissed.

            I can’t believe he went and bloody _kissed_ me.

            I say that to Penny.

            “He did what he had to do to make the show continue.”

            “No, he did it, on,” I imagine – no _remember_ \- his lips on mine, cold and hot fusing like the moon and the sun on a solar eclipse. That is the only time the sun and moon meet. The only time. How did it just _happen_ to happen? “On purpose – he had to.” _Heavens to the stars_ when did it suddenly heat up so much?

            Penny doesn’t look impressed. “He wouldn’t have purposefully gotten Agatha sick.”

            I try to put my colder hands on my cheeks, but I don’t _have_ colder hands. Just this sticky, sappy heat everywhere. “He might’ve,” I argue. “To throw me off. Confuse me.”

            “What would you be confused about?” Penelope questions. “Do you like him?”

            “Penelope.” I say, stopping in my tracks. My muscles tense. “I _hate_ him.”

            “You can still _like_ him _and_ hate him?”

            “No, I can't, Penny." I rub at my eyes. "I _can't_ like him -  _He_ plot and he’s _evil._ Evil!”

            “Okay, Simon, then you never have to kiss him again.” She replies. “The Production is over.” I frown at her. “What? What’s there to frown about, Simon?”

            I think about it. I think about the kiss, about my frowning, about liking Baz, about _wanting_ Baz.

            “Nothing.” I reply to her. “Nothing.”

 

 

 


End file.
